


Depth

by jmflowers



Category: Emmerdale
Genre: F/F, Family Fluff, Ficlet Collection, POV Second Person, POV Third Person, the soft family ficlets I'm a glutton for
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-21
Updated: 2019-11-23
Packaged: 2021-02-16 11:10:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,815
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21506920
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jmflowers/pseuds/jmflowers
Summary: Home (noun) - the place in which one's domestic affections are centered.ie. Where all my fluffy, family ficlets belong.
Relationships: Charity Dingle/Vanessa Woodfield
Comments: 24
Kudos: 130





	1. Yogurt

**Author's Note:**

> Yogurt... or yoghurt? 
> 
> "All the things she did that used to drive me insane, like licking yogurt tops..."  
> (But with only the yogurt tops and none of the break up bit.)

**Yogurt**

It happens on a Sunday, early enough in Autumn that the birds have yet to cease their excited chirping in the tree just beyond the kitchen window.

Noah and Sarah and even Moses are still asleep upstairs, but you’d been awoken from your own slumber by the little boy settled on your lap like a limpet. An early riser, Johnny is, much as you’ve tried to train it out of him. (Though he’s all but half awake, truly; his fingers mindlessly twisting into the soft cotton of your sleep shirt.)

It’s different, now you’re settled in at Jacob’s Fold. Less a chore to lift yourself out of the bed at the crack of dawn, stumbling down the stairs to a kitchen without another soul in it. There’s no one hovering, ready to disturb the tentative edges of peace.

Just you and Vanessa and your children… and the occasional, flitting intrusion of Faith.

(Though, it’d be a lot better if more of these Sundays began with a cozy little lie-in.)

Vanessa putters around the room with a much more chipper air about her than either you or Johnny seem capable of mustering just yet, the two of you watching dazedly as she boils the kettle and readies cups of tea and pulls yogurt from the fridge.

That’s different, too – the contents of your kitchen. It had changed a bit when Vanessa and Johnny had moved into the Woolpack: new, healthier cereals had appeared in the cupboard, different toast had been placed on your plate in the morning (“Brown?!” Noah had exclaimed in disgust), a bunch of those individual serving cups of yogurt had found their way to the back of the fridge.

But it’s otherworldly here in Jacob’s Fold – always vegetables in the crisper and ice lollies in the freezer and a bunch of them little canisters on the counter with pretty labels that read ‘sugar’ and ‘flour’ and ‘tea’.

Organized, is Vanessa. Where you have always instilled a bit of chaos, she has found order.

She brings the yogurt to the table; one of those big, family-sized containers that seems as though it might last for a month and somehow never does, her other hand clutching a brew she places in front of you. There’d been a logical reason for the switch from the individual serving containers when you’d asked, something completely thought out and rational and so absolutely Vanessa that you’d scoffed at it, but now you can’t seem to remember.

Johnny shifts in your lap, already reaching for his little bowl sat atop the table and the green spoon he’s refused to be without for every meal in the last two weeks. (“That’s normal for his age, in’it?” Vanessa had asked, worry furrowing across her brow.)

Vanessa pulls the lid from the container and clicks her tongue, that bit of her jaw tightening for a moment like it does when she’s frustrated by something. Not surprising, really, when half the contents of the container are smeared on the lid like someone’s given the whole thing a real good shake. Moses, probably, you think; he’s taken to scavenging through the fridge whenever you’re not paying close enough attention, a spitting image of Noah when he returns from school.

Always your kids, leaving a little bit of destruction in their wake.

Johnny leans back against your chest when the bowl is firmly secured in his hands, two generous dollops of yogurt just managing to cover the image of Gekko printed on the bottom of it. Another new obsession this month – PJ Masks – and more than likely the inspiration behind his _need for green_.

You do it without thinking. Vanessa turns away to grab another bowl or her own brew or something she’s forgotten on the counter and the yogurt lid is within your reach and Johnny is mumbling away about how delicious it is and it’s nowt to reach across to pick up the lid and lick it clean.

But the noise Vanessa makes would beg otherwise.

“Charity!”

You freeze, lifting your eyes quickly to where she stands over you, both hands settled on her hips like one of them mums in Johnny and Moses’ storybooks right before the protagonist gets scolded for not being kind.

“What?” you mumble, which only serves to make Johnny giggle and Vanessa’s eyebrows press further down her face.

“Use a spoon, maybe?” she suggests like it’s logical, like you might’ve considered such a thing and just decided against it. As if there’s not a child clearly blocking the path between yourself and the cutlery drawer, already lifting his bowl of yogurt to his face to take a lick, too. “Johnny, no,” she says as she reaches out to stop him.

“Mummy, Charity did it,” he argues.

Vanessa scowls in your direction. “Charity’s not allowed to, either.”

“Since when?”

The look on her face in response to that makes even Johnny shrink a bit, watching as her arms fold up across her chest and she tilts her head. He turns to look at you with wide eyes, staring for a moment before he shoves his bowl back onto the table and rolls off your lap. Like a cowardly lion, he is, scuttling across the room for the couch as though he knows the scolding you’re about to get and would rather duck for cover.

Not like Moses, who’s been known to stand watch with a mouthful of giggles.

“Since always, Charity,” she murmurs, lifting her eyes briefly to watch as the telly comes to life in the sitting room, Johnny already expertly flipping the channel to cartoons.

Only, that’s not quite how you remember that conversation had gone. It hadn’t been _don’t lick the yogurt lids_ , but rather more of a _don’t lick the lids of the individual cups_ and really, you’d assumed that’d been out of some irrational fear that you’d cut your tongue in the process. (Which, honestly, is a fear you can _completely_ understand.)

But… this lid is plastic. Not a sharp edge in sight.

“How d’you expect me to hurt myself on this one?”

Vanessa’s brow scrunches up slowly, confusion settling over her face like a cloud. “You what?” Understanding dawns even slower, creeping gently, bubbling softly into a laugh that tumbles into another, her eyes bright as she bites her lip to reel them in. “Is that why you thought I asked you not to lick the lids?”

You shrug, tossing the lid onto the table and leaning back in your chair. The laughter is telling; more proof of something you’ve done wrong, another way you don’t quite measure up.

Her demeanor changes quickly, as though she can read you. She can always read you. “Charity,” she says softly, dropping into the chair beside you and tilting forward to set her hand on your arm, “I just think it’s a bit gross.”

You gasp, indignant, lifting your free hand to your chest as though she’s wounded you. “My tongue is gross?”

She smirks, the corner of her mouth pulling to the side and her one eyebrow lifting and it’s so reminiscent of a thousand little looks you’ve shared before that you can feel that warm, tingly thing burst in your belly near instantly. “Not at all,” she whispers, a rosy blush already colouring the tops of her cheeks, her hand squeezing gently where it still rests against your arm.

“Then what’s the problem?”

Nothing, really, you know. Because there’s a lot of things different here at Jacob’s Fold: the time your feet hit the floor in the morning, the items written neatly on the grocery list stuck to the fridge, the number of bookbags abandoned behind the couch at the end of the day.

But more than that is this feeling of understanding, this safety that burrows into every interaction – from the arguments about whose turn it is to take out the bins (never yours, you swear), to whether you should turn up the heating (not yet) or get a takeaway for tea (of course) or who left the milk on the counter (Noah).

There’s an intimacy here that’s equal parts foreign and familiar.

It’s there, when she leans forward and captures your lips.

“At least try to stop, yeah?”

And it’s still there, months later, when Moses scolds Johnny for doing just the same.

(Because, really… what’s the problem?)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lick The Yogurt Tops 2020
> 
> Guiding myself (slowly) back to the discipline of writing and my favourite way to do that is with the least angsty little scenes such as this. I'll be loading this collection for the next few weeks (months) with all the works in progress I've abandoned this year. If you have an idea for something you'd like to see written, or a prompt you want me to interpret, shoot me a line over on my tumblr @jmflowers. I swear I don't only write in second person POV.


	2. It, Maybe

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> That one where they get together before Vanessa finds out she's pregnant.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote this one back on 13 June and have only shared it on my Tumblr. I accept completely that it's totally daft and absurd, but I am SUCH a sucker for happy, lovey baby fic. Sue me.

**It, Maybe**

It’s still early days when you finally decide to take a test, your months of bad mistakes close enough that you’re not completely surprised when the second line turns pink. No, not surprised, but upset – if the catch of a sob in your throat is anything to go by.

Because you’re certain it’s Kirin’s, and that’s somehow even worse; to know you’re carrying the child of a child. To have real, concrete evidence of the love you’d once felt for him, growing slowly in the safety of your womb.

Only it’s different now; there’s someone else’s bed you’ve been crawling into and you’re starting to really appreciate the safe halo of her arms. It’s a lot to ask of another human being, though, to stand by through something like this.

No, it’s much too early to ask her to stay.

That’s the worst of it, maybe.

~~~

You try to tell her over dinner first, somewhere between her hand slipping into yours and the long line of her neck as she tips her head back to ask for the bill. You lose the nerve in the taste of her lips against your own, your back and your courage both hitting the wall beneath her sturdy hands.

You try again in the morning, when her hair is mussed and the sunlight is illuminating the pillow under her head and you can’t possibly roll away from all the expanses of exposed skin. But it’s harder, somehow, to say goodbye in a place that feels so sacred now, to break what you’ve been trying so hard to make grow.

It tumbles out days later than it should, in the rise of anxiety as an argument is just beginning to break the cusp of the horizon. You think she’ll be livid, think she’ll go mad with rage before storming out. You don’t expect the quiet, the fall of her hands and her brows as the world goes still.

No, she doesn’t walk away when you tell her you’re pregnant.

That’s the most amazing of it, maybe.

~~~

She is gentle in the coming months, soft as she moves around you and the child moves within you. She reaches for your hair when she finds you sick in the morning, slides glasses of water across the bar top when you come in from the outside, smiles from behind you as you examine your changing form in the mirror.

You don’t expect her to press her hands against the swell of your abdomen as she curls around you in bed, but she does, her fingertips tickling at the stretch of your skin. The baby inside pushes back at her palms, tiny fists nudging as he twists. He doesn’t like when you’re still, throwing his limbs around in protest when you finally fall back against the pillows. She calms him so you can both sleep, rubbing her hands across the bump until his flutters go quiet again.

No, she brings peace to a place you never thought you’d find it.

That’s the scariest of it, maybe.

~~~

You are alone when you realize the squeeze around your middle requires more attention than you’ve been giving it. You’ve felt the contractions on and off for weeks now, but it’s not until the pain makes you gasp that you stop and think. Because they’ve been happening all morning, increasing with frequency as you tried to carry on with your day, persistent even as you shifted in your seat to alleviate the pressure in your back.

You’re not quite sure what to do at first, because you’ve never done this before, have you? It’s one thing to read about it in a book, it’s another thing entirely to be living it. Your first thought is to call her, to beg for her to come and hold your hand so all this looks a little less like an impossible hurdle. But Rhona walks through the door before you can shuffle across the room for your purse, slipping a steady arm around your waist to guide you out the door.

She’s mad at first when Rhona calls from the car, her voice tinged with an edge of panic as you hear the door slam shut behind her, the sound of her keys jingling on the other end of the phone as she asks questions. You want to reassure her, to remind her that you both can handle this, but she beats you to it, too, murmuring soft words of encouragement as you grit your teeth against another one.

No, she doesn’t drive you to the hospital, but she’s there to hold your hand when they wheel you to a room.

That’s the miracle of it, maybe.

~~~

She is still sat beside your bed when the nurse comes back with your baby boy, lifting him carefully from the bassinette. You shake your head when she tries to hand him to you, looking to the woman at your right who rises at the notion with a warm blush in her cheeks. You aren’t surprised then, when she holds your child like her own, when she presses a kiss to tuft of dark hair atop his head.

She is quick to whisper in his ear, conspiring already with the boy who has a nursery in her home, who has a toy box and a crib and another mother who cherishes him. You feel a swell in your chest as you watch her, as her eyes flick upwards to meet your own. It is easy to lean forward for a kiss, it is easy to sit back and watch her with your son.

No, she doesn’t run away even when the evidence of your history is a living, breathing child.

That’s the love of it, maybe.

~~~

She is good with him, as he transforms from newborn to infant to toddler. He drops his tongue from between his lips and earns her laugh, his own face scrunching up with delight at the attention. He is the first to notice when she walks into a room, his arms always raised in the air in request to be scooped up. She is good for that, tentative in most things but guaranteed in the cuddles he desires.

You don’t expect her to be as brilliant as she is, when you’ve spent months listening to the self-deprecating talk of all the ways she’s failed her own children, but there’s a surety to her movements when your hand rests in the small of her back. There’s a trust that blooms between you when she knows you’re there if something were to go wrong. She blossoms into dependable and sturdy, a light in the room for your son and yourself, too.

No, you don’t fall in love with her in one big, grand moment, but rather in an effortless, seamless sort of way, not too unlike how your child fits between your bodies in the middle of the night.

That’s the perfection of it, maybe.

~~~

You wake with a start to the hit of a fist against your chest, yanking a startled breath from your lungs. Not Johnny, but Moses, thrashing about in his sleep where he’s curled against you. You sigh as your body relaxes, pulling him tighter to you if only to pin his limbs in place. A hand curls at your waist, looping around and underneath your pyjama top.

It’s mindless, this, and safe; a comfort you’ve grown grateful for.

The dream is close still, enough that you can clearly picture the images your mind had conjured of your fiancée holding your newborn son. Not a reality, that, but an ideal you’ve only vaguely let yourself wish for in the past.

It feels whimsical, in the haven of night, the only glow in your room from the streetlamp outside. But not foreign, to want for the security of now in the mess of your past. Not wrong, to dream of a life where Johnny had known her love from the very start.

She shifts in her sleep, nudging closer and blowing a breath across the back of your neck.

That’s the Charity of it, maybe.


	3. Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Vanessa takes Sarah and Johnny with her to do the shopping.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I spent the entire day working on a smut piece for this collection, and then @iwatchforher said this idea sounded good and, well... here we are an hour or so later. 
> 
> This chapter is for you, Nathi. Hope it rots your teeth.

**Home**

Vanessa’s not certain whether she’s more surprised or pleased when Sarah begs to tag along for the weekly shop. She’s been dreading it herself for more than a week, watching as the kitchen got scarcer and Noah’s moaning louder. It’s a right pain to do, when Charity’s busy manning the makeshift pub on her lonesome and there’s no Moses kicking about to keep Johnny occupied in the trolley. It’s easier to accomplish with two of them in tow, she’s discovered, which is probably what makes her agree so quickly when Sarah asks.

She’s more help than hindrance, though, which is somehow still a bit of a shock to Vanessa. She latches onto Johnny’s hand the second he’s out of his seat and doesn’t let it go until he’s secure in the shopping trolley, listening intently as he yammers on about the latest nursery gossip. Even leans over the handle to push a stray bit of hair off his face, like a proper mum.

Or a big sister. Or family.

It makes Vanessa’s heart squeeze in her chest, her eyes going all misty for a moment as she turns away to examine a produce display. That’s been happening a lot lately – sudden tears when she’s not quite ready for them. They’ve been amplified now that they’re all living in Jacob’s Fold and she’s not so concerned with getting caught having a little cry by Chas or Paddy. It’s easier to move on from when it’s Moses who’s sidled up beside her with a soft hand on her knee than Bear with all his useless blubbering and inappropriate comments.

The grief has softened a bit, now that she’s letting herself feel it. The harsh blow of surprise has given way for something that feels an awful lot more like that familiar abandonment. Which only serves to add to the tears, really, because that’s the last thing she’s ever wanted for Johnny.

But then Noah gives up the remote so Johnny can watch his favourite show or Sarah wipes a stray crumb off his cheek and that wibbly, wobbly thing inside her chest tips over into an aching gratitude. Because they’ve not been abandoned, not really.

Sarah’s looking at her when she turns back around, even if she tries to pretend like she isn’t. Her eyes don’t dart away as fast as she thinks they do, caught for a moment in Vanessa’s baby blues. Vanessa’s grateful for that, too; for how much easier Sarah is to read than Debbie. She’d thought that wouldn’t be the case, when they’d all agreed to this.

Only, Sarah is kind to the younger boys. She’s grumpy, sure, but she’s more willing to discuss how she’s feeling than Noah and more likely to help around the house and she doesn’t always play her music so loud that you can’t escape from it. She’s not half hard to live with, truthfully, even if her mood see-saws faster than even Charity’s.

“Johnny helps me, too, y’know,” she says softly as they carry on down the aisle, her eyes trained away at the bagged salads and cartons of milk.

“How d’you mean?” Vanessa asks.

Sarah shrugs, reaching up to grab a package of cheese. “He’s quiet, like Jack. Not always screaming the house down and ramming trucks into each other like Moses does.”

She’s not wrong on that; Moses has found a particular joy in the open staircase at Jacob’s Fold. Particularly, a joy that involves launching every toy car down them while he makes all the sound effects for their crash. Noah had thought it hilarious at first, before he’d stepped on a forgotten one and nearly lost his head. But Johnny hasn’t joined in on the game yet, which apparently can’t involve dinosaurs and therefore isn’t interesting.

“You must miss Jack,” Vanessa offers. She hadn’t thought of that yet. They’d discussed the absence of Debbie, her and Charity, and all the ways they’ve ought to go about making Sarah still feel at home. But the absence of Jack hadn’t quite crossed her mind, before now.

Sarah nods, tugging on the end of the shopping trolley to get them moving again. “Not that he’s not a pain, of course,” she adds on. She reaches up and grabs the first sugary cereal she spots in the next aisle, holding it up shyly for approval before dropping it into the cart. “It’s just…” she pauses, considering, “It’s nice to have people around you when you miss someone, isn’t it?”

And just like that, the burn of tears at the back of her eyes reappears.

How did she get so lucky, really?

“Don’t cry,” Sarah begs, tucking her hair behind her ears nervously.

Vanessa’s laugh is watery when it tumbles out, her eyes shining. She reaches for Sarah without much thought, tugging the young girl into her arms for a hug. “I’m just glad,” she murmurs into her hair, holding on tighter than any of the kids would ever normally allow her, “Glad that you’re ours.”

Sarah’s blushing when Vanessa finally lets her pull away, brushing at her shirt like the softness of a shared moment has somehow wrinkled it. But there’s a hint of a smile at the edges of her mouth, just a tiny glimpse of her true feelings, hidden beneath the surface. “Yeah, well,” she says as she reaches for the handle of the trolley and carries on pushing it.

Johnny laughs, reaching up to squish her cheeks between his hands. And where she could lean out of his grasp or roll her eyes, instead she smiles so brightly at Vanessa’s little boy that for a moment it almost looks like all the world is glistening.

~~~

Charity’s waiting on the front stoop when they return, clutching tight to a brew as she squints at the afternoon sun. She won’t be home long, not when there’s always punters to serve and the task of putting away the shopping to avoid. But it’s nice to see her.

It’s nice to lean into her hold the second they’re out of the car.

“You okay?” she asks as they watch Sarah and Johnny head through the door into the house. Her breath rustles at the top of Vanessa’s head as she speaks, her lips a second behind with a gentle kiss.

Vanessa sighs, closing her eyes as that warm feeling she only has one word for washes over her. “Yeah, I’m alright.”

 _Home_.

**Author's Note:**

> Drop me a line over on my tumblr @jmflowers.


End file.
